With Raef and Alard gone and Maela imprisoned by Polo, Ralan had not felt so lonely in a long time. He stood on his balcony looking out on his guild lands, an entire half of the walled city. In the distance, he could see smoke but no fires. There was the suggestion of movement near the Great Bridge, but the distance was too great for him to see more than that.

It was odd; he was one of the most powerful men in Ness at the moment, yet he felt like there was little for him to do. He missed running through the Knight Tower to rescue Alard, galloping toward Gaotteland to reach Karch, and even the Founders Day parade that left him gagging and covered in filth. At least it was something.

But what could he do in that moment? It was as his brother had said when he first informed Ralan that he was the Guildmaster Thief—he was but a figurehead. Of course for Larsen, the Guildmaster Thief was a figurehead of scorn. Now he was a figurehead of a real guild with real responsibilities, but he was still a figurehead.

Ralan wanted more. He wanted to do something.

Marching back into the Tower, Ralan entered his quarters and put on his traveling clothes. Leather breaches and a black shirt with black boots. Flowing behind him was a black cape made of liquid cloth, the rarest of materials in Ness. There would be no mistaking he was the guildmaster.

Striding out, he approached Philos. “I am going to Founders Square to meet and talk to the Harvest Guild refugees.”

Philos was too experienced to even think of contradicting the guildmaster. That was Alard’s job. He simply nodded and replied, “Will you require a carriage?”

“I’ll be riding my horse.”

“As you wish. I shall attend to them.”

“Very good. I’ll meet you in the stables.” Ralan knew Philos would be escorting him, and while he wanted his outreach to the Harvest Guild refugees to be his personal mission, he knew it was wise to have his personal guard with him.

Thinking of his guard also reminded Ralan that he should arm himself. Returning to his quarters, Ralan secured the long dagger that Alard had given him to his waist and thigh. He doubted it would do any good against a formidable opponent but its presence made him feel better.

The stables had come a long way since their former unused and collapsed state. Ralan’s horse, the majestic beast gifted to him by Lord Wilhelm stood proudly in front, Philos holding his reins. “He is a mighty steed, Guildmaster.”

“He was a gift of the Outlanders. He was raised on the plains.” Ralan rubbed his hand along the horse’s neck. “I’ve named him Kalisto.” It was the name of a city that Raef said was far to the west beyond the Outlanders. It sounded exotic and wild to Ralan, and it seemed to fit the horse.

“Ah, like the glittering prize,” Philos replied.

“Glittering prize?”

“Yes, the children’s verse. Do your work and focus your eyes, and you, too, can make it to Kalisto, the glittering prize.” Philos shrugged. “I figured it was some ancient treasure of some sort. Your horse is definitely a treasure.”

The city and treasure. I wonder if they are the same thing. More hints of our past, hidden in plain sight, Ralan thought. “It is indeed the source of his name, a glittering prize indeed.”

Philos handed the reins to Ralan and vaulted onto his horse. Philos was surprisingly nimble for a large and muscular man wearing chain mail. He had been installed by Alard, and Ralan was certain that Philos was one of the deadliest fighters in all of Ness.

Ralan climbed onto Kalisto, and they spurred their horses out of the stables and on to the Old Quarter and Founders Square.

Green tunics, robes, shirts, and cloaks were everywhere as the flow of Harvest Guild members across the bridge didn’t seem to be abating even a full day or more after it had started. “They are clearing the entire Quarter,” Ralan muttered.

“That they are, Guildmaster,” Philos replied.

Ralan hadn’t truly believed that Larsen could do any such thing, so it helped him focus on the scale of what he was seeing. The crowds were enormous.

It took a moment, but Ralan discovered that there was order to the crowds he was seeing flowing through the streets. Thieves Guild members in black were guiding groups to various houses and down various alleys. Each group was organized and escorted by a member of the Thieves Guild. Despite the chaos of humanity, everything seemed to be moving with an orderly flow.

Ralan pushed his horse forward and through the people so that he could be in the center of Founders Square, a large open area at the center of two intersecting major thoroughfares in the Old Quarter. At the center was the base of a statue with nothing upon it. Ralan assumed that back in the migration from the Old Quarter, the statue had been stolen or destroyed.

Stopping, Ralan yelled out. “Welcome to your new home and shelter! The Thieves Guild welcomes you. We are here to help, to heal, to feed, and to shelter you. We are your friends. If you have questions, I will answer them. You have nothing to fear.”

Ralan crossed his arms, not expecting anyone to say anything, although he hoped his words were calming. A large number of Harvest Guild members had looked at him while he spoke, and one of them yelled out.

“You are thieves. You have stolen from us! Why should we trust you?”

Ralan looked at the man. He appeared older, and from his clothes looked like the kind of guild member who would not need the assistance of the thieves. He would see them solely as just that—thieves.

“We take so that we can give. The food and clothing we have stolen will now feed and clothe you. It is as it has always been.”

Ralan looked around. “Anyone else!? We are here to help, but if you would like to know our history or more about our guild, you can simply ask any of us. We no longer have any secrets. Your well-being demands our openness.”

While the refugees had listened to him intently, none of them seemed to have any further questions. As groups made their way through the square, Ralan would greet them and introduce their benefactors as the Thieves Guild. He was not naive, and Ralan knew that his words would not change anyone’s opinion of thieves, but his hope that his words would provide the proper context for the kindness that the guild was showing everyone. They may not believe the words, but they couldn’t help but believe the actions.

As the hours drifted by, Ralan enjoyed himself. He spoke to fellow Thieves, asking of their health and applauding their efforts. He answered questions of Harvest Guild members, wishing them well and offering to listen if they had any concerns or problems with their treatment. He listened as many would angrily condemn Larsen or Orion or Saxe or all three in one expletive-filled sentence.

As he considered whether it was time for him to return to his tower, a middle-aged Harvest Guild member approached. Ralan looked down at him and smiled. “You are a difficult man to approach, Guildmaster,” the man stated.

“I’m right here!” Ralan spread his arms and smiled.

“You are here now, but previously you have not left the Tower in days.” What is this? Ralan though. Philos moved his horse forward and unsheathed his sword, laying it across his saddle. The man held up his hands. “I mean no harm!” The man lowered his voice and took a step toward Ralan.

“One more step and you die.” The blunt statement was delivered with the precision of an executioner’s swing.

“I have a message for the Guildmaster from the Crown of Gaotteland.”

Lord Wilhelm. The leader of the Outlanders. Ralan looked closer at the man. He had pale blond hair and striking light blue eyes, almost white in color. This is an Outlander spy in Ness. “Speak your message.”

“You have lost control of the city. You were to open the trade routes. If you do not restore order soon, Lord Wilhelm will do it for you.”

Ralan stared at the man, who appeared bemused more than anything. “A threat then?” The man shrugged; his face was inscrutable. “Alas, your message is a lie. You forget that I have traveled to Gaotteland. This horse was a gift from Lord Wilhelm himself. It is a multi-day journey. There is no way that Lord Wilhelm would know of the violence in Ness and responded to it via messenger. There is no time.” Ralan turned to Philos. “Philos, I believe the dungeon has room for another resident, a liar.”

Looking completely unperturbed, the Outlander laughed. “You are a sharp one. I will give you that. You are correct, of course. I am Lord Wilhelm’s Hand in Ness. I have the authority to speak in his name.” A Hand. Probably akin to what Guildmasters called Captains in Ness. Ralan wondered if he could embed a Captain in Gaotteland without discovery. He filed the thought away.

“So he doesn’t know what is happening here?”

“Not yet, but he will soon.” The man spoke in a jovial tone. “You have time to—” The man waved an arm across the square, encompassing all the refugees. “Fix this problem.”

“What if this isn’t a problem to be fixed. What if this is the first step in the path to opening the trade routes?” Ralan peered at the man, challenging him with nothing more than his force of will.

The man ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re clever, Ralan. I admit that the paths forward may not be as clear as I have outlined. I will amend my message and provide you with time. Let us hope that it is enough to get the job done. I will await your progress.” The man went to turn but stopped and looked back at Ralan. “Do not look for me. I will contact you.”

Ralan was going to object, but the man had already blended into the crowd.